


to call myself beloved

by aglassfullofhappiness (mehmehs)



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Character Death, Character Study, Death, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, M/M, Mentors, POV Outsider, Talking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:54:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28026597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mehmehs/pseuds/aglassfullofhappiness
Summary: There are three things everybody knows about their favourite history teacher:One – get him on the right tangent and he’ll forget about assigning homework;Two – nobody’s correctly guessed what his sordid past was yet; andThree – he is recently widowed.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 138
Kudos: 442





	to call myself beloved

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the tags – major character death, discussions about bereavement etc. But it’s done softly. Soft angst. I think.
> 
> Many thanks to [ harryhotspur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/harryhotspur/pseuds/harryhotspur) for the 24/7 feral hours and beta support.

Mr al-Kaysani takes less than a month to become everybody’s favourite teacher. Even for those who don’t take history, or skive off constantly – they all love him. It’s weird; he doesn’t seem particularly special on first sight. But he has a way of speaking that makes everyone lean in, and a way of listening that makes the quietest teenager talk. He insists he’s older than he looks but is boundlessly energetic, smile constant and wide. Outside of class, he coaches football, directs the school play and helps run every fundraising event. He has a healthy disregard for curriculum, and seems way overqualified to be a high school teacher. Nobody wants to tell him that though, and risk him leaving.

He becomes the go-to for a good chat. He’s always in his office early and always after the final bell rings. During every visit, he puts down whatever he’s doing and pulls out an elaborate tea set that looks far too antique to be used. Six months in, he has likely witnessed every possible student meltdown, and heard every piece of gossip the school has to offer. Outside of his office, he’s oftentimes the subject of gossip himself. It’s hard to say who’s more fascinated by him: students, staff, or parents. No one can confirm his career path to being here; no one’s found the limits of his apparent knowledge yet. The only thing that that they can confirm is that he’s a widower. No one had quite known how to handle that bit of information, so they make sure to avoid it, quietly spreading the word so no one unwittingly asks him about it. It’s fine; there are plenty of other things to focus on.

“Do you realise how many languages he speaks?” Henry asks after parent-teacher evening. “He was switching for every parent and fluent in everything! Now I can’t even lie to mine and pretend he’s just saying I’m great.”

“You’re kidding me,” Priya says while they’re on year-group camp. Mr al-Kaysani is doing a perfect run-through of the adventure course, making the advanced rock-climbing, archery and abseiling stations look piss-easy. He swings onto the final podium from the ropes section and takes a bow as they all heckle him from below. He obviously loves the outdoors while also being a giant nerd; he yells on the sidelines of sports games and cries in the audience of theatre productions.

Claire gets to know him better after he catches her and Alex kissing backstage. It wasn’t anything scandalous, but they’d finally gotten together after being friends since they were ten, and she was still dancing on air about it. Mr al-Kaysani’s voice says “Claire, two minutes to – oh!” and they both jump apart, hands still clutching at each other. They all freeze for a moment before Mr al-Kaysani laughs and gives them two thumbs up.

“Just don’t make her late for her cue, Alex,” he says, and disappears back around the corner. She’d apologised to him after the final curtain, and he’d just laughed again and waved a hand.

“The show goes on,” he says, shooting finger guns at her like he thinks he’s genuinely hilarious. “Congrats, by the way. I heard that was a long time coming.”

“How do you hear _everything_?” Claire asks, mortified.

“Well, I _did_ used to be a spy,” Mr al-Kaysani says, packing away the last of the props. “You learn some things.”

“Right,” Claire says, rolling her eyes. “Just like you used to be in the military, were a firefighter and also, weirdly, a blacksmith.”

“Exactly,” Mr al-Kaysani replies, nodding. He always looks so sincere it’s almost hard to remember he’s joking. “It’s all the life experience, Claire. I’m quite old, you know.”

“That _joke_ is quite old, you know,” she says, and he laughs.

“Apologies. Old men are prone to repeating the same jokes.”

He is there when she starts having her existential crises over career paths and uni options; when her grades start dropping because her parents’ divorce is getting nastier and nastier. He lets her skip class in his office after her first panic attack; entertains her with rambling answers to her niche history questions. She knows she is not the only student he does this for, treating each of them like they’re the only one. She doesn’t know how he does it. She’s just very grateful.

Mr al-Kaysani is the first teacher she talks to when Alex is killed.

It happens like this: Alex gets into a car after a party. He is texting her from the passenger seat when the driver crashes into an oncoming truck. He is unconscious when the paramedics arrives; he is dead by the time they reach the hospital. Claire is not at that party. She is rushing her essay on the First Crusade when Alex’s parents call her.

She goes into school the week after because she doesn’t know what else to do. She knows everyone will have found out by now. She knows people will stare and be horribly awkward about it. But she can’t bear to be at home anymore, with the divorce raging; can’t be with Alex’s parents, who must be in worse pain than she is. So she goes to school and gets through half the day in a daze, hands and feet still moving even when her brain is not. By lunch time she’s starting to shake, but she grits her teeth and makes her way to Mr al-Kaysani’s office.

She can tell when he opens the door that he knows. Of course he does; everybody does. But he just lets her in and puts the kettle on. She sits down opposite him and says, clear and prepared,

“I haven’t finished the essay that’s due today. I’m sorry.”

“Claire –” he starts, but she cuts across him. His voice is too soft; she can’t bear it now.

“May I have an extension until Wednesday?”

“Claire,” he says, and his tone shifts to match hers, steady and smooth. “You can have an extension until next Friday. How does that sound?”

She nods, staring down at the desk. She’s never had to ask for an extension in her life.

“Alright,” she says, “thank you.”

“And if that doesn’t work out, don’t stress,” he says, and she feels her throat clench. “We will work something out.”

She nods, fingers digging into her palms. She should go now, before she loses it completely. She has yet to really cry, and she doesn’t particularly want to do it at school. She’s not sure where else she’d do it, though.

“Tea?” Mr al-Kaysani asks, pulling out a large teapot. It really does look too beautiful for teenagers. She nods again, frozen in place, and he puts her favourite in: this fancy green tea sweetened with an undercurrent of strawberries. She realises her mistake when the scent rises between them. Alex had always bought her this tea, even though it was horribly overpriced and he thought it tasted strange. She sits back, trying not to inhale, and the breath builds in her chest as Mr al-Kaysani’s face shifts from carefully neutral to concern. She blinks and it happens: tears leak from the corners of each eye, hot and stinging and heavy. 

Mr al-Kaysani holds out a box of tissues to her before she can apologise or dash them away. She takes some and presses them to her face; takes long, slow breaths. It’s okay, it’s okay. She knows she might still be in shock; she knows she has a valid reason to cry. She doesn’t think Mr al-Kaysani will judge her, far from it. There’s a reason she’d come in person, rather than just emailing him. She knows what she wants to ask, even though she shouldn’t. She feels very young and very stupid; she feels lost; she feels an aching, crushing pain throughout her entire body that must be grief, pain so heavy she thinks she will suffocate, and yet she’s still here, still alive when Alex isn’t, and she doesn’t _understand…_

For several long minutes, there is only the sound of her sniffling and the muffled noise of lunch break outside. Snippets of conversation run by the window; bursts of laughter. She feels distant from it all, like Mr al-Kaysani’s office is a separate world entirely. She wipes her eyes again and looks across at him. He’s busy filling her mug, and the care he’s taking threatens to restart her tears.

“Hey, Mr al-Kaysani?” she says, and has to clear her throat several times. “Can I ask you something personal?”

He looks up, setting the tea pot down.

“Sure,” he replies. His voice is as warm as ever, but his eyes are piercing.

“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,” she adds hastily, and he smiles, corners of his eyes creasing.

“Now I’m intrigued.”

He must know what’s coming. Claire takes a slow breath being saying, careful and halting,

“You were…you were with someone, right? Before you started working here.”

There’s no sudden change in her teacher’s face, but Claire feels the air shift, somehow. She can barely hear anything except her own breathing. Mr al-Kaysani’s expression betrays very little, except for the first time, he looks as old as he keeps insisting he is.

“I was, yes,” he says, and looks at her evenly. “That one spread fast, huh.”

She feels her face heat and he holds up a hand, laughing a little.

“It’s alright, Claire,” he says. “It’s not like I keep it a secret.”

“Okay,” she says, and he gestures for her to continue. “Well I – I just thought. Maybe, if you were able to…”

“You want me to talk about it?” he asks, and she nods jerkily. “About…them or about how I felt straight after, or how I kept going?”

“All of it,” she says, and then cringes at herself. “I mean, whatever you’re comfortable with. I just feel like you’d understand. Better than anyone.”

“Of course,” Mr al-Kaysani says, and steeples his fingers under his chin. His eyes are very dark, and when he looks past her she can’t fathom what he’s remembering. “Anywhere specific you’d like me to start?”

“Um…” she says, feeling like she should have notes ready. “I mean, just anywhere, if you’d like. If you can.”

“Oh, we’ll be here all day if you just let me start,” Mr al-Kaysani says, and laughs like he’s made an old joke, well-worn and much loved. “Why don’t you ask some questions, and we can go from there. You can ask whatever you want. It’s okay.”

She can hear all the layers in his voice: warmth and invitation, sincere, with an undercurrent of grief she only recognises now because she feels it, except hers is a bleeding wound and his is a deep-seated ache. Or maybe she’s just projecting. Either way, he’ll know better than her.

“I heard…” she starts, and gropes around for words. “I heard you were – together, for a long time.”

Mr al-Kaysani’s smile deepens and he sits back, hands settling behind his head. He has that look on his face his classes love; the one where he’s about to go on a tangent that always ends up better than their lesson plan.

“That’s true.” The corner of his mouth quirks like the answer’s funnier than it is. “A very long time.”

Claire’s heart jumps. “High school sweethearts?”

“Earlier than that,” Mr al-Kaysani says, and Claire raises her eyebrows.

“Childhood sweethearts?” she amends, and Mr al-Kaysani shrugs.

“Something like that,” he says. “But not sweethearts, back then. We actually hated each other when we first met.”

“Oh, that’s funny.” She leans forwards. “What changed your mind?”

Mr al-Kaysani lets out a long breath, but his smile only grows fonder. His eyes drift to the ceiling, and she realises she’s holding her breath, waiting for the story.

“It took a long time,” he says. “He was very different, back then. We were raised very differently. But he grew up a lot, he worked hard, he tried to make things right. I fell in love with…” he pauses, looking back at her. “I mean, I fell in love with all of him, of course, every part of him. But his compassion, his actions, as we grew up together…” he sighs, and Claire feels the ache in his voice, somewhere within her bones. “I couldn’t help but love him, Claire. I have tried to put it into words for years and it’s never been enough.”

He presses his lips together in a rueful smile.

“Okay, bad start on my part,” he says, and she feels her mouth curve a little in response. “Hard question. May I ask you one in return?”

Claire nods. She knows it won’t be pretty, but fair is fair, and she trusts him.

“Do you keep forgetting he’s gone?”

Oh – Claire had expected a _how are you doing, really_ , or a _what’re the funeral plans?_ Mr al-Kaysani looks at her like he can wait forever; not like they are teacher and student, but as two human beings who understands exactly how the other feels.

“I…” she starts, and when she blinks, tears splash onto the desk. She wipes at them hastily, but he reaches out and passes her a tissue instead. “Sometimes, before I wake up properly…but then I remember, and it doesn’t feel real. I can’t tell if I’m…awake or dreaming, I just – I don’t – I don’t _know_ anymore.” Her next breath is more like a sob, raw in her throat. “So then I think – won’t he just walk through the door? Maybe I’ve imagined everything, maybe I haven’t. I keep thinking I see him, I jump every time my phone goes off, I know it’s stupid but I want – so _badly_ –”

She heaves in another breath and curls over the tearing pain in her chest. It has been present ever since she got the call, and it threatens to gape open again as she tries to breath. She imagines that if she sits up, her insides will spill out, all over Mr al-Kaysani’s rug.

She feels him come around the table and crouch next to her; a hand on her back, soothing and steadying.

“Slowly now,” he says, voice soft. “In…hold…and out. That’s good. That’s great, Claire.”

“Sorry,” she says, and his hand stops against her back. “I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean to –”

“Nothing to be sorry for,” he says. “You can’t help how this feels, Claire. And it just happened! You need to let yourself have that, for however long you need.”

“No, I –” she presses the palms of her hands against her eyes. “No, my parents – people say…we were so young, and exams are coming up and I have to write my scholarship app –”

“Claire,” Mr al-Kaysani says, and there’s an edge to his voice that makes her look at him, bleary through her tears. “Fuck anybody who says that. _Fuck that_ , okay? You loved him. He loved you. Above all else, you were best friends – it matters, it’s serious, it’ll _hurt_. Don’t let anyone take that from you.”

“How long?” Claire asks, desperate even when she knows there’s no answer. “How long will it feel like this, because I can’t – I _can’t_ keep feeling like this, I can’t –”

“You will,” Mr al-Kaysani says, and his eyes unfocus for a moment. “You can, and you will.”

“How do you know?”

He looks at her, and she can see the lines on his face when he says,

“Because there is no other choice.”

It’s such a surprising answer from him that it doesn’t feel like his words, and she’s shocked enough to stop crying. She wipes at her cheeks and stares at him as he stands and returns to his seat.

“No…choice?” she repeats, dreading the answer even though she knows it’ll be easier to believe if it’s harsh.

“I mean – you always have a choice,” Mr al-Kaysani says, exhaling. “But in staying true to who you are, and who you want to be…you will find your way forward, and you will keep going. I’m not going to tell you you’ll be stronger for it, because we shouldn’t have to learn this way, but…”

He stops, taking a deep breath himself. She is grateful, selfishly maybe, that he seems as pained by this as she feels; more put together than she is, for sure, but so visibly human.

“It’s what he said to me, Claire. He never wasted any words; he always knew what to say. He was a great philosopher, you know? Used to drive me up the wall when I wanted a straight answer.” Mr al-Kaysani smiles, but it’s not his usual expression. Every movement of his mouth seems to pain him. “But he said: _it is my time now, and someday it will be yours. But don’t dim your light before then. You have far too much to give for that._ ” Mr al-Kaysani’s eyes are starting to shine, and Claire doesn’t think she can keep herself together if he cries too. He sniffs, face creasing. “Dirty move, really. I could never deny that bastard anything.”

His last words startle Claire into a laugh, choked but real, and Mr al-Kaysani laughs a little himself. He picks up his own mug and sips, steam obscuring his face. It gives Claire enough courage to ask, almost whispered,

“What was his name?”

Mr al-Kaysani sets down his mug. There’s a long pause before he says,

“Nicolò. Nicholas, Mykolai, Klaus, Nikos, Nikolasi. Nicky.”

She makes a bemused face at him and he shrugs.

“I love his name.”

“I can tell. Did he know as many languages as you? You seem really well travelled.”

“Oh, I was always better at languages than him,” Mr al-Kaysani says, looking proud. “But we travelled a lot together, yes. He loved discovering new places. I would travel just to see him react to things.”

More tears escape from Claire’s eyes, but she doesn’t stop them this time, just wipes them away before they hit her clothes.

“Alex and I…” she swallows, hard. “We talked about travelling together, before we went to uni. I don’t think my parents would’ve let me but – it was so nice to think about. We planned an entire tour through Europe, we had budget plans and everything; he really wanted to make it happen. There were all these places he wanted to show me…” Her voice breaks, and she presses her fist against her mouth. “I don’t know what is worse,” she says. “Thinking about what we could have done together, or thinking about what we did do. It’s too painful to remember but I’m scared that if I don’t…I’ll forget. And then I’ll lose him that way too.”

She hadn’t planned on saying that; hadn’t even quite realised it herself, until she’d said the words. Mr al-Kaysani nods, slow and strained, and the minute he realises her words have run out he says,

“You’ll never lose him, Claire. Never. It will get…easier. But you will never lose him. Not when you’ve loved him.”

She looks at him, and wonders if her desperate need for instructions shows naked on her face. He seems so happy, day-to-day; so productive; so _good_. She needs to know – needs to know how he does it. He smiles at her like he knows exactly what she’s thinking, expression still pained.

“For me…” he starts, and when he blinks, his own tears run down into his beard. Unlike her, he makes no move to get rid of them. “You’ll keep remembering things – the most random things at the most random times. But they’ll pop up, and you’ll want so desperately to live in those moments again. But just – remember them like a film reel. Let them play out and let them run by, don’t try and stop them. Cry with them, laugh with them, no matter how big or small the moment. Don’t drown in them but – don’t avoid them.”

He hesitates.

“You draw, don’t you?” he asks, and she nods, minute. “I loved your piece at the exhibition last term.”

“Thank you,” she says, looking down. Alex had loved it too; stopped her from tearing it up when she’d hated it halfway through.

“I draw too,” Mr al-Kaysani says, and she looks back, surprised. “So I draw my memories out. It helps, somehow.” He pauses, gnawing at the inside of his cheek. “Would you…like to see?”

She nods, sitting up. No one’s ever even seen a photo; she feels like she’s about to peak into Pandora’s box. He reaches into one of his drawers and pulls out a battered notebook, bound shut. He pulls it open and flips through the pages, expression hidden from her until he settles on a page and lays it gently down in front of her.

“Oh,” she says, because no words would really be adequate. It’s a pencil sketch, black and white for all except the eyes, which are a brilliant shade of blue-green. It’s somewhere between photo-realistic and what must be Mr al-Kaysani’s style of art, and she feels like she’s meeting this person – Nicolò – through his eyes. The man is both nondescript and beautiful at the same time; face turned like the sketch has caught him unawares, mouth curved in a soft smile. Her eyes follow the smooth line of his jaw, the slope of his nose, and settle on his eyes, deep-set and shadowed. They are so intricately drawn she feels the man is looking right at her, up out of the page. She wonders if he looks loving because that’s how he used to look at Mr al-Kaysani, or because that’s how Mr al-Kaysani feels, love imbued in every pencil stroke. She doesn’t think a single hair has been drawn without thought.

“Wow,” she says, and looks up when Mr al-Kaysani doesn’t reply. He is staring down at the sketch himself, very still. His fingers rest on the corner of the page; he has rings on, but not on his left hand.

“Were you married?” she asks, and Mr al-Kaysani blinks, looking up. It takes a moment for her question to register, but when it does, he smiles.

“Many times,” he says, and she raises an eyebrow.

“Were you _that couple_ who renewed your vows all the time?” she asks, and he laughs.

“Yes, that,” he says. “Nicky was always an incurable romantic.”

“More romantic than you?” Claire says, sceptical.

“Well, it’s not a competition,” Mr al-Kaysani says, “but he was always more romantic than people gave him credit for.” His expression is so soft now Claire can barely look at him. “He was always two steps ahead of me. He thought of everything. He’d be gone before people even realised what he’d done for them.”

“What was your favourite thing about him?” Claire asks. She shouldn’t pry, but to hear Mr al-Kaysani speak about Nicky – that he was _able_ to, with such love even when it obviously pained him, was godsend to her. Mr al-Kaysani gives her his most incredulous look.

“Only _one_?” he asks, and she laughs. It feels funny in her throat, but it’s definitely a laugh.

“Yes, only one,” she says, and he falls back in his chair with an exaggerated sigh.

“That’s a tough one,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “Let me think.”

She sips her tea while she waits. Mr al-Kaysani genuinely looks like he’s struggling.

“I love…I loved –” he begins, and then has to start over. “He loved me,” he says, and makes a face. “Ah, I can’t even say – he chose to love me, every day, for so long. Through the most…the most difficult times. He never failed to surprise me. I don’t know, Claire. All I know is that he loved me, and he was home to me, no matter where we went. And it is a privilege to be loved like that, for however long or short you get it for. That’s what I…” He takes a deep, steadying breath. “That’s what I keep with me.”

It is one of Mr al-Kaysani’s many talents, to provide answers to questions students hadn’t even asked yet. Claire nods, throat clogging. She knows she cannot compare what she has – had – with Alex to what Mr al-Kaysani must have had with his husband, but she also knows Mr al-Kaysani wouldn’t want her to compare, and that his words ring true for her, too.

“I just…” she says, and her voice is barely a whisper. “I just want him back.”

Mr al-Kaysani’s face creases; he looks ancient somehow, like both his grief and hers has aged him in front of her eyes.

“I know, Claire,” he says, and his words are utterly sincere. “I know.”

“I know it’s dumb…” Claire says, and then manages a laugh when Mr al-Kaysani makes a face at her. “Alright, not dumb, but…” She pauses. Finds her words. “Alex was the first person to love me. I know we were young but – he did. And I did too. I do.”

“Of course.”

His voice, completely devoid of judgement or question, helps her breathe out. It’s a fact then, indisputable and irrevocable.

“But no photo, or drawing – at least, not _my_ drawings – can capture that. And that’s what I can’t lose. That feeling. But how can I…?”

“Claire,” Mr al-Kaysani says, and his voice is so tender she thinks she could touch his words, if she were to reach out. “You won’t. You won’t forget it. You might wake up one day and realise you can’t remember the exact details; you might forget the exact curve of his nose, or the exact shade of his hair in the summer sun versus the winter. You might forget exactly what it felt like for him to take your hand.” He leans in, and while his eyes are shining again, his voice is clear. “But you will never forget how he loved you. Because a love like that shapes you, and that love is a part of who you are now. You couldn’t get rid of it as much as you could forget him.”

From anyone else, the words would feel hollow. From him, they feel like the absolute truth. Claire feels like she’s sitting around a campfire and feels just about as warm. She wipes at her eyes while he refills her mug, and then collects herself over a long sip. He doesn’t seem to expect an answer.

She stays there until the bell rings, signalling the end of lunch.

“You’re welcome to stay here,” Mr al-Kaysani says, packing up his things. “I just have a class, that’s all.”

“No, it’s okay,” she says, checking her face in her phone screen. She’s blotchy but she minds less than she’d expected. “Thank you, though.” She clears her throat. “Thank you for…everything, Mr al-Kaysani. For listening, and…sharing. I really, really appreciate it.”

“Any time,” Mr al-Kaysani says, smiling at her. “I mean it. If you want to talk, or just to get away from things – I’m here.”

She nods, not trusting herself to say thank you again without crying, and goes to leave. She’s halfway out of her seat when something catches her eye. She lets out a laugh, sudden enough that it startles both of them.

“Oh my God,” she says, pointing. “Mr al-Kaysani, you’re finally right, you _are_ getting old. You’ve got a grey hair.”

His head jerks up, and for a second he looks so shocked it’s appropriately comical. Then, very slowly, the strangest expression starts to spread across his face.

“My God,” he says, lips curving. “See, I told you. Ancient. Where is it?”

It’s in a curl that falls in front of his face; she directs him and he pulls it out with an exaggerated wince. He stares at it for a long moment, and then smiles up at her.

“Thank you, Claire,” he says, although she has no idea what he’s thanking her for. “Let me know how you go, okay?”

She is not fixed when she leaves, far from it. But she feels awake again. She feels present, pain under each step but less suffocating than it had been. She turns to shut the door and catches a glimpse of Mr al-Kaysani, still sitting at his desk. He has his sketchbook back open, the one grey hair she’d found still in his fingers.

Whoever this Nicolò had been, he must have been very lucky. She thinks of the drawing; his eyes, so lovingly rendered. They were all lucky, really. She’ll never forget it.

~*~

_And did you get what_  
_you wanted from this life, even so?_  
_I did._  
_And what did you want?_  
_To call myself beloved, to feel myself_  
_beloved on the earth._

_\- Late Fragment_ by Raymond Carver

~*~

**Author's Note:**

> Would love your thoughts on how Joe might go on if Nicky were to go first. I like to believe he carries on helping people, as painful as it may be, in new capacities. Maybe especially with kids since he and Nicky never got to raise their own children, if that’s something that they wanted. 
> 
> All feedback welcome ♥
> 
> Edit 22/12/20: Now with a parallel widower!Nicky fic linked below 😊

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [to feel myself beloved on the earth](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28238976) by [aglassfullofhappiness (mehmehs)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mehmehs/pseuds/aglassfullofhappiness)




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